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Poem by Robert Burns


Adam Armours Prayer


Gude pity me, because Im little! 
For though I am an elf o mettle, 
An can, like ony wabsters shuttle, 
            Jink there or here, 
Yet, scarce as langs a gude kail-whittle, 
            Im unco queer. 

An now Thou kens our waefu case; 
For Geordies jurr were in disgrace, 
Because we stangd her through the place, 
            An hurt her spleuchan; 
For whilk we daurna show our face 
            Within the clachan. 

An now were dernd in dens and hollows, 
And hunted, as was William Wallace, 
Wi constables-thae blackguard fallows, 
            An sodgers baith; 
But Gude preserve us frae the gallows, 
            That shamefu death! 

Auld grim black-bearded Geordies sel  
O shake him owre the mouth o hell! 
There let him hing, an roar, an yell 
            Wi hideous din, 
And if he offers to rebel, 
            Then heave him in. 

When Death comes in wi glimmerin blink, 
An tips auld drucken Nanse the wink, 
May Sautan gie her doup a clink 
            Within his yett, 
An fill her up wi brimstone drink, 
            Red-reekin het. 

Though Jock an havrel Jean are merry  
Some devil seize them in a hurry, 
An waft them in th infernal wherry 
    Straught through the lake, 
An gie their hides a noble curry 
            Wi oil of aik! 

As for the jurr-puir worthless body! 
Shes got mischief enough already; 
Wi stanged hips, and buttocks bluidy 
            Shes sufferd sair; 
But, may she wintle in a woody, 
            If she wh-e mair! 

1785

                      Robert Burns


Robert Burns's other poems:
  1. Theres News, Lasses
  2. Scroggam
  3. The Toast
  4. Where are the Joys
  5. My Wifes a Winsome Wee Thing


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